


Blow a Kiss, Fire a Gun

by autoeuphoric (FreezingRayne)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Endgame, Gen, Multi, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 13:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6756844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreezingRayne/pseuds/autoeuphoric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>four ficlets i wrote post-Collide </p><p><b>thanks for the assist</b><br/>// Dirk and Dave, post beheading and resurrection </p><p><b>cage match</b><br/>// Roxy has a planet to avenge </p><p><b>welcome home</b><br/>// Jade wants to see him again, but this John isn't <i>hers</i></p><p><b>try not to get killed</b><br/>// Dave's and Karkat's glorious reunion</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. thanks for the assist

**Author's Note:**

> these are strewn across my blog, so i thought i'd gather them all in one place. i'm going to post them over the next couple days as i clean them up.

Life crashes back into you, electrifies your veins, paints you warm and whole and blue. Your first thought is _fuck_.

The next one is _Jane_.

You don’t think you’ve ever been more happy to see a human face in your life. Round cheeks, lank bangs, tiny overbite. The God of Life has your back and you love her for it. You could kiss her.

Instead you sit up and say, “Thanks.”

Her smile and teeth get bigger. “Sure! Happy to help. I think generally you’re a lot more interesting when your head is attached.”

A few yards away Roxy is talking with Lalonde the Younger and Kanaya the vampire troll. She winks at you and you give her a two-fingered wave. She's dented but holding together. So the Condesce is dead; there's no possible scenario where Roxy would have let the batterwitch walk. Terezi is here too, talking to the boy in blue–-John. That just leaves Jake, and–

“Hey, Crocker.” You get to your feet and adjust your leggings. Getting killed really makes the fuckers ride up. “Have you seen–did he–.” Your throat is sitcky. Must be the lingering effects of decapitation. Yeah.

Jane’s smile is complicated–-a little knowing, a little sad. “There were a bunch of them earlier, but I think the one you’re looking for is–-.” She tips her staff to gesture behind you. The Furthest Ring lives a permanent dusk and your shades aren’t helping, but you see a shape in the gloom, white floating over red. You let your steps echo loud and unwieldy as you cross the surface of the lilypad, and your breath wheezes in your throat. Your neck is a little sore. 

Dave’s shoulders sit crooked, right slightly lower than the left. You haven’t seen him in anything but his god pajamas, but he’s probably built like you. Narrow waist and prominent ribs, arms and upper back sleek with the musculature of a swordsman. He’s paler, but he’s spent a lot more time in the dark than you have.

“Hey.”

He doesn’t react at first. Then–

”’Sup.”

He’s staring off the lilypad like The Void is fascinating.

“Thanks for, you know–.” You almost say the assist, but that’s bullshit. That had been a fucking goal, and your head had been the fucking ball and both Jacks enemy quarterbacks. Three points from the penalty line.

You know dick about ancient sports.

Dave chews on his answer before it makes it out of his mouth. “Anytime.” You step closer and he goes rigid. “Just–maybe give me a little space.”

“Right." You weren’t going to touch him. You were just trying to see his face, even though his shades hide more than yours do. You’re still awful at reading body language outside of combat.

He swallows and breathes out, and a sliver of tension unwinds from the wings of his back. His spine straightens. “Right, yeah. Sorry. I’m just used to…”

“Karkat,” you say, because look what a great brother you are. You remembered his boyfriend’s name. A-fucking-plus.

“Yeah. Dude is all about the stealth hugs.” Dave adjusts his shades with his palm and rubs at his cheek. “How’s your…” He flicks a finger toward his neck.

“It’s good. Attached and returned to factory settings. Jane did her Maid of Life thing, so no permanent damage. As far as I know.” Shit, this is even worse than a couple hours ago, when you could barely look at each other.

You imagine scenarios and immediately discard them–they’re too indifferent, or too aggressive, or just fucking dumb. _Good job. You got the fuckers_ , or _sorry you had to do that_.

Because what if Dave isn’t sorry? Is there any reason he should be? You look exactly like the dude who straight-up, no room for ambiguity abused him for thirteen years, who made the end of the world preferable to his life. You don’t even fucking know why you walked over here, you should’ve just–-

Dave’s so fast you don’t even have time to draw your strife deck (Sawtooth would be ashamed) before he’s on you. Like, all up on you. Arms around your waist, face pressed into your neck, shades digging into you chin. Dave clings on like you might dissolve if he lets go. His hair is a sweaty snarl and he smells like an armpit. 

“Okay, I realize that I just told you not to touch me, and that this is awkward and inappropriately timed, and that everybody is watching us hug it out, like, anime style over here, but–.” He’s babbling into the edge of your cape, voice full of trembling sips of breath.

“It’s cool." You try to hug him back, even though you’re not really sure how. This is your second hug of the day from the same person and that’s probably a record for you. “We don’t even have to act like it’s gross this time, if you don’t want to.”

Though you kind of hope he doesn’t cry. Not because it’s not manly or some bullshit like that, but because if he cries, you might cry. And then Roxy will definitely cry, because Roxy always cries and she’ll try to get in on the hug. She’ll drag Rose into it too, make it a whole Strider-Lalonde family clusterhug. Maybe that would actually be okay. Embarrassing, yeah, hells of awkward and uncool.

But nice.


	2. cage match

 

You’re a _god_. You repeat it to yourself as the dirty Derse light paints your skin and fingernails mauve. She may be an older-than-fuck cake-slinging fish queen in a unitard, but you’re a god. The God of Void. The Rogue of Nothing. The Princess of Empty. The Voidinator. The NULL SET. Yeah.

You grew up playing boss fights and final levels--you know your shit. But there’s a fundamental difference between this and gaming at 2 a.m. in your underwear, drunk off peach vodka, maxing out a character while Jane waxes about Jake in one ear and Dirk babbles about robots in the other. That’s just getting all the levels, grabbing the upgrades, using those sweat cheat codes you yoinked off the net.

_This_ is ice in your guts, cold that spreads through the tunnels of your veins as the batterwitch descends in a ripple of great hair and magenta eyelashes. This is remembering the cool and bad-assy speech you gave to John and knowing that now you have to be _that_ girl, instead of a catastrophe of relapse and abandonment issues and fear. Fear for you, for Dirk, for all your new friends. You’ve never had so much to care about before.

Rose and John attack first. Their powers combine all swirly-sparkly, whips of light that tear at the witch’s hair and lash her flawless skin. Kanaya’s chainsaw revs and you let out a yodeling battle cry that sounds nothing like you and yank whatever you can from the abyss–-perfectly generic objects, pumpkins, ponies (gotta stay on brand)-–and throw them like they're lightning and you're the universe's most celibate Zeus.

And she just takes it. Absorbs it all like she’s on the beach soaking up some rays. Staring you down, grinning, always grinning. Like she knows your whole life story–-lonely, desperate, angry, lonely, scared, lonely, lonely, _lonely_ –-and she thinks it’s hilarious. You swing in fraught pulses between terror and rage, and you know she’s planning something. An overlimit, an ultimate attack. You taste it in the air. You know Rose does too.

When she unleashes it’s perfectly timed and perfectly coordinated, like she’s reading your minds. She knocks you all down one after the other, pain slicing into your ribs, vibrating through your entire skeleton. Then the bitch has Jane by the throat--your best friend is struggling in desperate little twitches, and no one is helping her.

You scream and see black, red, grey.

Then Jane is on the ground and you’re in the air, a huge bejeweled hand catching you like you’re a frisbee. She could snap you like a match.

“Hey cutie.” She smiles and she is thousands of teeth, hundreds of years, billions of lives. “How ya been, girl?”

You spit blood. “Fuck you.”

Her laugh is mean and filthy. “Gotta be patient, little starfish. How ‘bout…” She reels you in, and up close she smells like brine and blood and an underlying sweetness that makes you dizzy. “How’s about I krill all your little fronds, and then we stick ‘em on skewers and roast ‘em up.” An enormous tongue licks her pink mouth. Your stomach twists. “Then I’ll keep you nice and safe in a tank with the other pretty fishes.”

She shakes you once, and agony splinters down your spine. She’s laughing. She’s laughing and your friends are dying.

_It’s all you, RoLol._

The void crackles in your fingertips, pieces of you snap into place, and you decide. You don’t know how to do this, you don’t know how to win, but you are not leaving Derse until one of you is dead. There is no raincheck, no tactical retreat for Roxy Lalonde. This is ending here, now, this fucking minute. Cage match–-two smokin babes walk in, only one walks out.

You stop struggling, and she tosses you aside like you’re garbage.

You barely feel it when you hit the ground. The void is building inside you, but it’s no longer an absence, a lack. It’s clay, it’s code, it’s infinity. You are hooked up to the source--you feel it in your broken bones. The Condesce turns her back on you, shaking out her hair and swaggering toward Kanaya and John.

Distantly you know you’re in pain, that things are busted and sliding together in a way they shouldn’t, but you let it evaporate, swirl away like mist into the greater atmosphere. Then you push yourself to your feet.

Your sword is in your hands. Then it’s in her chest. And you are in the sword, power radiating down the blade. You shove the nothing inside her, the everything. You let it expand.

No one can stand against the void. Not even Her Imperious Condescension.

She freezes, and when her knees hit the ground you try to think of something cocky to say, a parting shot, a fuckin meme. But you’re fresh out of memes.

You curl your fists and watch her die.


	3. welcome home

It’s not that you didn’t believe Callie and Davepetasprite. You did. You do! You believe that there’s a John who survived and saved you all and fixed the messed up universe. Sounds like pretty typical hero leader stuff. But that bit of data is miniscule against the years you spent on the ship, alone with the expanding galaxy of loss inside you. John was your friend, then your brother, then nothing. Just gone. 

This John isn’t your John, he’s some other John. Alpha John. And you’re Alpha Jade, but you’re not even really sure what that means. It’s fascinating and you’ll have to think about it more but…not right now. Despite all the sleep you’ve gotten you don’t quite have the energy for existential pondering. You may have The Best Powers, but you’re still human. Well, part human. Probably.

Maybe.

Four colorful figures detach from the darkness and land. The blue one on the end comes straight for you, and what are you even going to say? _Hi? What’s up? How are things?_ It’s John but it won’t be the same he isn’t _yours_ –

“Jade!”

He’s a blur of blue and black, a windy comet flying across the lily pad, and your particles seize and expand. Your heart pounds hard bursts. Maybe it’s the animal part of you, the part that doesn’t think about timelines or alternate selves, that just hears his voice and smells him and thinks _home_.

You both go for a hug at the same angle and collide, laughter pushed out of you in ragged huffs, and you grab hands instead. John is beaming, cracked open and pouring out joy. You push him and he pushes you and you’re both up on your toes, holding each other steady.

“Jade! You’re here! You’re awake and not evil!” His eyes are giddy bright. “Dave said that Vriska said we couldn’t wake you or Jane up since–-Oh! Have you met Jane?”

“Yeah, I did! I met her when I was asleep, she’s really nice! And I think she’s-–.”

“My mom. Our mom! Holy shit, Jade. We have the same mom and she’s here.” His fingers tighten on yours. “I’ve never had a mom before.”

“Me either!” you gasp helplessly.

Forget what past you said. Past you was an idiot. Warmth is filling up that empty space inside you. You know this isn’t your John and you aren’t his Jade, the memories you have of each other don’t match, but you are starting to think that Davepetasprite was right. That no matter who this John is, you know him. By muscle memory, or pack-instinct, echoes across dimensions. The fact that you all live in an ever-expanding multiverse inside a videogame where time is circular. Or maybe it’s just wishful thinking. Doesn’t matter.

You would be happy to just stand here forever, shouting at each other about things you already know, but oh–-there’s Rose and Dave and Karkat, and they all look a little busy! But that’s okay because you can talk to them later!

Because there is a later now. For all of you.


	4. try not to get killed

You’re on your way to the lilypad when you realize that he might not come back.

Not that it hasn’t occurred to you before that one of you might die–-of course it has. You’ve had sweeps to ideate just how fantastically gruesome and humiliating the end could be. You have already died more than once, and so has he. Over and over.

 _Dead Daves are a renewable resource. We’re the fucking water cycle_. A flat smile and a voice that crackled like static. 

You’d laughed, because you’d thought it was a joke. But now you know that the important things are the ones Dave jokes about the most. The ones that ache, that splinter into shards too tiny to spit back up, but big enough choke on.

All through the battle you’d told yourself that all you have to do is survive. You’ll come back and he’ll be waiting for you on the couch in the meteor's rumpusblock, and you’ll bury against his side and pull the world in after you. You’ll watch shitty movies and argue about music, and he’ll kiss you until you can’t breathe. 

But you’re not the only one who has to come back. Fucker has to pull his own damn weight. And that’s the thing that terrifies you most about all of this. You’re only part of the equation.

Your feet hit the platform and your bloodpusher rattles your chest as you’re overrun by a flock of colorful dorks in pajamas, but you don’t see red, there’s no _red_ –

“Yo.”

An arm hooks around your neck and a pointy chin nudges your shoulder. Your pusher seizes and the tension inside you bursts open, melts down into a relief so heavy you’re probably going to swoon. Your name is Karkat Vantas and this human douche has turned you into a sappy piece of shit.

“Dude, I heard you, like, wrestled a gnome.” His breaths are warm. You hope he never lets go. 

“It wasn’t a gnome, you gossiping asshole. It was a leprechaun.”

“Oh damn, thanks for that, wouldn’t want to get any of the details wrong when I write my memoir.” You can hear his grin, see it out of the corner of your eye. “Did you win?”

“Hell fucking yes I did!”

“Sweet.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Did you kill the Jacks?”

“Yeah.”

“Both of them?”

“Yeah. And my bro, too.”

“WHAT?”

Dave’s hand tightens fractionally across your shoulders. “Cut his head off.”

“Dave–.” You turn in his arms. “What are you…” But you saw Dave’s bro–he’s the one with the little dainty crown on his hood, right? And the tights?

“He got better.” He’s still smiling, but there’s a tension now, a spark that transfers from his body to yours. You can smell his anxiety. “Jane did her thing.”

Right. Maid of Life. “But Jesus Christ, Dave. Are you sure you’re–.” You don’t finish the question. No fucking point. You know the answer. “Do you want–should we–.”

A tremor moves through him, like a breeze twitching the collar of his cape. He sags against you, and suddenly you’re holding up a handful of skinny time player, his forehead resting on your shoulder, fingers twisting in the front of your shirt. “

“Not right now. I just–can’t right now. But later, yeah. Definitely.”

Warmth floods your veins, builds in your shout tunnel. “Right. Victory party now, feelings-jam later.”

Dave sniffs discreetly, leaning back and adjusting his shades. “Feelings jam? Shit, I thought you were offering blowjobs.”

You punch him in the arm, but you can’t stop smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on tumblr at quadrantconfusion.


End file.
